Amulet Rampant Read online

  Author's Note

  Amulet Rampant begins within days of the end of Some Things Transcend and concerns characters from that book and the Dreamhealers series. Readers are advised of significant adult content; for tags and ratings on this and all the author’s other books, please check the website.

  Let me look into a human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze upon God.

  —Herman Melville

  It's not the monuments that teach us history. It's the ruins.

  —Carl Hammaren

  PROLOGUE

  She had asked, and he had made her a promise. Given all that had passed, she did not know why she was surprised that he kept it.

  “My Queen has asked to see the sea,” the Emperor said, standing on the topmost step of her tower. Startled, she slid from the sill by the window, where she’d been watching the sunrise and fighting her melancholy. Her eyes must have given her away, for he added, quiet, “I looked outside for contrails, too.”

  “I know he won’t be back,” she said. “But I feel it like a wound. That he isn’t here.”

  “I think he will be back. But we must make it safe for him first.” He offered his hand. “Come. I have a little time before I must be back at the work. Let us see the shore.”

  She slipped her hand over his palm, remembering another touch, so similar to have begun such a chain of events.

  “What is it, that makes you look so pensive?” he asked as they started back down the steps.

  “Remembering. It was how the Ambassador made a gift of his pattern to me, by offering the palm.”

  “Mmm. Yes. We will discuss that later.”

  She glanced at him. “My lord?”

  “Later,” he said again. “Tonight.”

  The trip to the shore took longer than she expected. From her tower window, it seemed a straight drop to the sea, and perhaps it was: for the winged. But she could not fly and he could not carry her, so he drove her—drove her!—in a sleek vehicle designed for more dangerous tasks than the ferrying of one crippled Chatcaavan female down the cliffs to the shore.

  It was nothing like the sight of it from her distant window. There was only a thin strip of land between the rocks and the beating of the water; she could not step onto it without being slapped by the surf. And the tide was cold and clung to her feet after it receded, leaving a film and streamers of thin weedy vines. The smell of it was wild and intense, and inhaling on a gasp she realized this was the source of the foreign scent that drifted through her windows… except by the time it reached her tower, it was diffuse, like a memory. She bent, careful of her balance, and ran her hands over the silky froth that broke from the waves as they smashed against the stones around her. Looking over the surface of the ocean, she saw the horizon and all the mystery beneath it that she would never plumb. Unlike the sky, though, the depths were a mystery no Chatcaava would.

  “Can we swim?” she asked, breathless with awe.

  “With difficulty.” The Emperor remained on one of the mounded rocks, crouched with wings spread just enough to steady him. The wind ruffled his mane back from the crown of black horns framing his face, tugged at the wing vanes so that he had to shift them constantly, slight adjustments she found fascinating to watch. “We are not made for it, but it can be done. But not here.”

  “Because it is not the homeworld’s sea?”

  His tone was amused. “Because there are rocks under the water that are sharp as teeth, and the current is unrelenting. It would take a strong swimmer to avoid his death.” He canted his head. “Is it all you imagined, my Treasure?”

  “No,” she said, straightening with dripping hands. “It is more than I imagined, because I did not have the experience to imagine it.”

  “Ahhhh.”

  Just that. But he did not move from the rock, nor rush her, nor even speak. That suited her. There was too much here for her to speak around it. All the world that she had been barred from, all the experiences she had never had the courage to desire… it hurt too much, to know what she had paid to become the female—to become the person—who could embrace them. And yet she would have done nothing differently, save, perhaps, to beg the Ambassador to remain. Even then—she turned from the shore at last and saw the Emperor awaiting her—even then, she might not have changed anything.

  “Come, my Treasure,” he said. “I must be getting back.”

  “Yes,” she said, and felt the shock of his wing curling around her back, over her useless pinions. Glancing up at him, she added, “Will you come to me later?”

  “There is much to discuss,” he said.

  Promise enough for her. She dipped her head and let him guide her back to the waiting vehicle, and the tower.

  "It does not work that way," the Queen said that evening.

  The Emperor was perched on the divan near her stool, wings tucked close but twitching and resettling, reflecting the swiftness of his thoughts. "I would have thought practice improved the process."

  "Practice at the Change improves your speed and your ability to hold the shape: how long, how much fuel it needs, whether you can maintain it under duress," she said. "But the pattern is created at the moment of the Touch. Only practicing the Touch makes the shapes truer to their original species."

  "That would seem to imply that your first few shapes will always be pale copies compared to those you take later," the Emperor said, considering her with interest. It flattered her that he sought her advice and accepted her greater mastery so readily. This, she thought, was what he was like with males—why he had succeeded so outrageously—this ability to care not at all what others thought of him while pursuing knowledge. All that mattered was that someone knew something he didn’t, and could teach him… and now that the Ambassador had shown him that females could teach, too, he sought that understanding from her as relentlessly as he did from others. It fascinated her to learn just how endless his curiosity was. He was as obsessed with understanding reality as most Chatcaava were with dominating others.

  It had brought him here, to her tower. To discuss something that would have gotten her beaten as a child. That had gotten her punished.

  "The first shapes you take will be pale copies, yes," she answered. "My first was poor, my lord. It is always thus."

  "And you have how many now? How long did it take you to become so accomplished?" He stood and began pacing, long tail held taut behind him.

  "I had two before the Eldritch," she said. "But... if you pay attention to the process, if you are willing to lose yourself to the Touch, the pattern sets better."

  His eyes narrowed and he slowed to a stop. "I find it hard to lose myself to anything," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  She said nothing. She'd personally witnessed the difficulty he'd had with the Ambassador, and that was the first time she'd ever seen him lose control of himself. Even before, when he'd spent himself in the harem, or with her, he'd always maintained that distance. It had taken a mind-reading alien to cross it at last... and build a bridge for others to follow.

  Still, she was careful not to push too much. He needed that distance, or the Empire would tear him apart.

  "Practice at the Touch," the Emperor said. "That is what I need, then." He lifted his eyes. "I need aliens."

  "Willing aliens," she said.

  He made a curt motion with his hand, dismissing any other possibility. And then added, interested, "Does it make a difference?"

  "In the Touch?" she said. She straightened, drawing in a breath and letting it out slowly as she considered the memories. Of the first two aliens, so frightened. Of the Eldritch princess, who'd pulled away before she could finish the pattern. And of the Ambassador, who had made a gift of it. "Yes, I think it does. If only to ma
ke it easier to relax into the discovery. A good Touch takes time and concentration. If you have to hold someone down, or they fight you, or they are crying..." She shrugged with a hand. "It makes it harder to focus."

  "Mmm," he said, resumed pacing. "Two components, then, to the process. The Touch that brings the pattern; practice in the Touch makes the pattern truer to form. And the Change, that allows the shift; practice at the Change makes it faster."

  "And also easier," she said. "You won't have to curl up to do it."

  "Yes, I remember," he said, coming to her, and she no longer cringed back from his approach. "You can Change with your limbs outstretched." He tilted his head, considering her. "How much practice did you do, to learn that?"

  She ducked her head so her hair hid her eyes. "Enough," she said. When he remained silent, she peeked up through her forelock and found him waiting, so she offered, "I was alone a great deal, growing. It gave me something to do."

  "Something only you could do," he guessed, and was close enough now to brush the mane back from her face. "And something you could be proud of doing well."

  She let him lift her chin and met his eyes without fear, and marveled that they had come to a place where that could be so, that she could no longer fear him. "I had very little of my own."

  "And you wanted," he said and huffed softly. "And we say females have no desires."

  "No," she said. "They say females have no needs. That is very different, my lord."

  “Untrue either way,” he observed, and licked the corner of her mouth.

  She submitted to the caress and said, “Yes… but when those in power decide that it must be so, they can make it so.”

  He brushed a thumb along the edge of her mouth, eyes narrowing. Thinking, most certainly; he was always thinking.

  “They make it so, until they make a mistake,” he said finally. “And then, their blindness becomes the weakness the oppressed exploit to destroy them. This I have seen elsewhere already.”

  She sat up to press her cheek against his. She didn’t like hearing such words, though she knew failing to face their peril would not make it cease to be. And yet so much of her life had been spent powerless to effect change! Knowing she could do something brought its own set of stresses, and she had no idea how to manage its effects on her. The fears of those without power, she thought, were very different from the fears of those with the responsibility to act on reality.

  No wonder he was so keen to understand everything. How else could one choose the right actions?

  “Will you find some aliens, then?” she asked, to draw his thoughts back from whatever precipice they hung on.

  “I may,” he said. “My next trip will take me near enough to the border that I might have an opportunity to visit one of the worlds there.” He snorted. “No doubt the Admiral-Offense will assume I am slaking other needs among the aliens.”

  “He doubts you?” she asked, fighting worry—poorly, for he reached over her head to still the rustle of her lacquered wings.

  “He is mine,” the Emperor said. “If nothing else, my actions here with Second have convinced him there is nothing wrong with my mettle. He may become an ally, perhaps as dependable an ally as Command East, whom I will leave here as my new Second. We will see. The matter wants more clarity.” His eyes grew distant and hard. “As so many do.”

  More understanding. Of course. “If I can help…”

  His eyes focused again, and she held her breath at what she saw in them. “You mean that.”

  “Yes,” she said, her wings clenching against her back.

  “Would you tell me that you are nothing?” he wondered, resting his fingers under her chin. “That you have little to offer, but that what little you do is mine?”

  When had this discussion become fraught? Because there was a trap in those words, one she wouldn’t have seen before the Ambassador had come with his insidious teachings of equality and power in chains. She dropped her eyes, frowning, and the Emperor waited as she sorted through the possibilities. When she looked up, she found his gaze on her, patient.

  That was the key she needed to understand. He was waiting on her answer, as if it was important. Which meant: “I am not nothing, my lord. I may not be like your other allies, but I have talents to offer. Different ones that no one else might have.”

  “A breathless piece of arrogance,” he observed, and she couldn’t tell if he approved or not.

  She lifted her chin off his fingers and said, “I am the Queen Ransomed. Most exalted of all females in your Empire. Who knows the Change and the Touch, and has known and befriended aliens. I am…” She trailed off and let her wings sag open. “I am not used to thinking of myself this way, but it is all true. That much I know.”

  “In your heart if not in your head,” he said, cupping her face and sighing. “Ah, my Treasure. You’re right… it is all true. Let no one tell you differently.”

  “So you will let me help?”

  “You do already,” he said. “You teach me. And you will serve me here better than you know. Or so I hope.” He brushed his nose against hers. “I hate to leave you, in fact, when the work will be so hard. It would please me more to take you with me.”

  “It would?” she said, eyes widening. “But… surely that would make you look weak?”

  “I hardly care what it makes me look like,” he said, and he could; he had been ruthless enough in the challenge that few would dare gainsay him now. “But your disposition would concern me, if you were there and I could protect you.”

  She lowered her head to hide her expression from him and he chuckled, low. Resting his jaw against her brow, he murmured, “Do you doubt that it would be so?”

  “No,” she said, flushed.

  “Good,” he said. “Now… perhaps we might practice the Change and indulge ourselves in a little pleasure before I go again. I have a few days—I would make the most of them.”

  “I hate that you leave,” she said, looking up at him through her hair.

  “I hate to leave,” he said. “But we must pass through this to reach the other side, my Treasure. And you must help me walk that path. Will you? No matter what it costs?”

  “It has already cost us so much,” she murmured.

  “But if it costs more,” he asked, as if the answer mattered.

  She met his eyes. “If I tell you that in the past, I have thought that if I died, at least I could never be caged again… and that I still think that, sometimes… would you feel pity?”

  He smiled and kissed her brow, a little press of tongue. “I would feel pride, because it would be a thought worthy of any Chatcaava: male or female.”

  It soothed him at times, to wear the borrowed shape when they were together. She found it comforting too, knew that he could sense it through their skins; perhaps that was part of why he indulged himself in it, for the realization that he was not alone in some things. The Queen was never sure herself, but she welcomed him in whatever shape pleased him...and if he chose now and then to use the one taught them by their beloved, now sped, what could she do but comply with a glad heart? And yearn toward the reminder of what they'd lost?

  He spread pale fingers on her short jaw and studied her eyes. Smiled with the more mobile lips of an alien. "Me too, my Treasure."

  She pressed her cheek against his hand.

  How long he would have spent considering her emotions while wearing his Eldritch form, she would never know, for there was a scuff of boots on the landing, and boots meant a guard. They both looked toward the stairs, the Emperor swiftly enough to brush her with his mane. “Ah,” he murmured to her. “This should be interesting. Watch closely.”

  Their visitor was indeed a guard, and an unusual individual, arresting in every particular. His body was entirely blue-gray, even to the vanes of his wings and the fall of his hair, coiffed in a style severe in its neatness. Gray eyes matched the scales, and lacked the intense saturation of most Chatcaavan gazes. His demeanor was professional: quite an accomp
lishment given what he found himself confronting. An alien in the arms of the Slave Queen? She watched him halt, body tensed like a warrior’s in preparation. Then his eyes found the Emperor’s, Chatcaavan in an Eldritch face, and that tension ebbed from him.

  “Pardon me, Exalted,” he said briskly. “There's been a message from the Navy. I was told to find you.”

  From the unhurried quality of the caress he bestowed on her back, the Emperor was unsurprised. Had he foreseen this encounter? Maybe he knew this guard already. He left the guard standing there for a few moments longer, then rolled to his feet with the fluidity of his dragon's shape, a predatory grace that made a lie of his alien shell. Approaching the guard, he said, “You've discharged your errand, Huuru.”

  Only the barest of hesitations; had the guard not expected to be known by name? He would learn soon enough how little escaped the Emperor. But he bowed with sufficient alacrity to avoid seeming discomposed. “Exalted.”

  As he straightened, the Emperor caught him by the nose-tip and he froze, wings half-open and tilted forward—respect, again, and he had thought quickly to make the offer at the unexpected touch.

  “You understand what you see.”

  Past the white fingers on his lips, the guard said, “You wear the shape of the alien who came from the Alliance. Who killed Third.”

  “And you are not repulsed by what you see,” the Emperor observed, letting his thumb slide to the male's lower lip so he might speak more easily.

  “No, Exalted.”

  The Emperor smiled, thinly. "Explain."

  At last, a hesitation long enough to be measurable. But the guard continued, though he cast his eyes down. "The Change is our birthright, Exalted... yet I have never seen it. That seems... wrong... to me."

  "It is as I thought," the Emperor said, with satisfaction. “You are curious. I had it from reports of you.”

  The guard raised his eyes without dislodging the Emperor’s hand. “Is it wrong to be curious?”

  “Have you been punished for it yet?”